


Shut the Front Door

by Tyellas



Series: History is hard to know [7]
Category: Mad Max (2015 Video Game), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Canon Compliant, Gastown is full of terrible people, M/M, Mild S&M, Nihilism, Organic Mechanic cameo, Other, Porn With Plot, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Mad Max: Fury Road, Slash, Thrall Rustlers, bureaucrats, here are some of them, which means sexual orientations are obsolete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/pseuds/Tyellas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fury Road spins Gastown into civil war, one of its top dogs, the Outcrier, tries to stay neutral behind locked doors, amusing himself with his best mate. But Gastown will come calling...</p><p>There's slash smut, kink, Gastown gossip and characters, a toast to Furiosa, and an Organic Mechanic cameo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut the Front Door

The Outcrier had won, as usual.

This time, he’d won the betting pool about how the Immortan was going to cark it. Warlords never died soft. He’d always had a feeling about that Imperator, the Bag of Nails. Sure enough, she hadn’t been a favorite of Scabrous Scrotus for nothing. He collected his winnings and squandered them immediately, shouting a round of Citadel ‘shine at his favorite dive.

The Outcrier was one of Gastown’s top dogs. Apart from its ruling council, he was one of its loudest voices. He let others keep the Wasteland's petroleum refinery running and defended. In this wrecked world, where nothing mattered, he had given himself over to amusement and pleasure. Both Gastown and the Wasteland bartered to see the spectacles the Outcrier staged, and fought and raced and died for him.

Tonight, at the bar, he let his gravelly baritone roll to lead a toast. “To the Bag of Nails! Keep her running Citadel for ten thousand days – and away from Gastown for that long, too.”

After the laughter died down, he listened. Blabbermouths were drawn in by his spotlight grin and the chance to boast later, “So I said to the Outcrier…”

“Immortan's breeders did a deal for the power grab. With the Bag of Nails backing them up, they’ve got a chance.”

“I know someone who knows someone in the Tower. Polecats are burning guzz running back. No sign of the big man or his rolling refinery.”

“Gonna be a fight soon, boss? A Murderdome? I got someone. A feral, but –“

Soon, the Outcrier had heard enough. He handed his drink to a fawning admirer and walked back to his place. At two meters tall, he had a strong-jawed face and healthy muscles, strapped into brown leather and goggles. With a fur vest broadening his shoulders, he was one of the few who dared to strut around Gastown alone.

At his warehouse, he hammered up the iron stairs to the entrance. There, he wrote on his news slate for those who could read: RACING SUSPENDERED FOR THE DURATION. This done, he entered and locked the front door.

Two hours later, the Polecats arrived. The news hit that not just the Immortan, but the whole Triumverate was down. And Gastown exploded into its own civil war.

The Outcrier knew exactly what to do: keep himself and his own out of it. He was rich and neutral. Like that Before-time place – what was it called? Swaziland? His no-strings Murderdome and car races were as essential to Gastown as the workers kept very, very safe deep inside the refinery. There’d never been a Gastown warlord he couldn’t deal with. They always wanted a cut of his action. When the would-be warlords finished killing each other, he’d emerge and deal with the winner.

*

Seventeen days after he’d shut the front door, the Outcrier was hoping they’d finish killing each other _soon_. It had been an exciting morning out there, complete with an explosion that set off sirens. Pacing, listening, and speculating was starting to pall.

The Outcrier had put some thought into the perfect way to burn off the morning’s adrenaline. He was a showman. Even if his audience was down to one, he was going to create an experience. The tension and confinement had given him ideas. And he wasn't locked in alone.

“’Lectricty Boy, you are a picture. A leather-bound, degraded picture.” He set the last tie in the bondage that had kept him amused for an hour and leaned back.

Gastown was never sure if the Outcrier’s best mate was his business partner or his owned concubine. By Wasteland standards, the wire repair boy was a lucky freak, loose-jointed, clean-lined, with unnaturally pale skin despite his dark eyes. Gastown disagreed further about 'Lectricity's blackened hands and chest. Some said they were permanent stains after a past as a petroleum slave, others, that he was black-handed after doing the Outcrier’s dirty work. The Outcrier let them wonder. The more attention the two of them received, the better it was for his business.

The leather cords binding 'Lectricity seemed to emerge from his own stained wrists to twine up and around him. As he knelt on the Outcrier’s bed, the leather trapped his arms behind his narrow back, invaded the crack of his ass. The dark cords strained to cage his chest and upper arms, muscular from hauling around a portable generator.

Standing beside the bed, the Outcrier mused, “Nothing keeping me from leaving you tied like that all night. Is there?”

‘Lectricity shook his head, breathing hard, eyes glazed. Like a good audience, ‘Lectricity didn’t talk much. He saved his smarts for running the Outcrier’s wiretech and watching his back. The only reward he sought was oblivion from the Wasteland, physical pleasure or Gastown’s many highs.

As the Outcrier contemplated his handiwork, he heard muffled pounding on his front door. It kept rolling. Focus fought with curiosity. Against seventeen locked-down days, curiosity won. Maybe there was actual news. If there wasn’t, some smeg was throwing him off his stride.

The Outcrier slapped ‘Lectricity on the shoulder. “Sounds like Gastown’s come calling. Think about who I might bring back,” he said, cheerfully. That should keep his boy entertained for five minutes.

At the front door, the Outcrier opened the peephole viewer. He frowned to see a greasy, suntanned man, hairy face twisted in a hopeful leer. Pretty average, except for the apron he wore, bound with a small fortune in nasty metal implements. This character didn’t waste any time.

“Good afternoon! Allow me to introduce myself - a new flesh mechanic in town… Joe Sawbones. I’m here as a purveyor of medical services for the elite. Post-combat triage, lump excision, rot management, and a few things up my sleeve to make an old top dog up for new tricks. If you want a medic on hand for your Murderdome, or to ensure the health of your concubines, I’m your man.”

The Outcrier rolled his eyes. “New in town, all right. Because everyone in Gastown, everyone, knows the Outcrier is a full-life. I _only_ offer up full-lives for my race winners, and I _only_ deal clean. Unlike you flesh mechanics. Take it to the Underbelly. Between the half-lives and Abdominus, that’s where you belong.” The Outcrier slammed the viewer shut, and double-checked that the reinforced steel door was secure. There wasn’t any more yammering. If the guy could take a hint, he might be alive tomorrow. He’d made himself none of the Outcrier’s business.

The Outcrier returned to find ‘Lectricity braced tense, eyes wide. He snickered, “Ugly customer out there. Revolting offer, too. I’m not that bored.” ‘Lectricity closed his eyes.

One lungful of Gastown’s stinking air had been enough. The Outcrier lit a cigar, taking his time. The first draw cleared his head. He savoured the contrast of the rough leather cordage against ‘Lectricity’s hairless skin, the heavy heat of the fur vest he wore, the tightness of the leather mask caging his own skull. Luxurious and slow, he traced a thick hand along ‘Lectricity’s bowed shoulders. “Relax,” he breathed, roughly. He dug his fingers into the younger man’s neck. An entire bound body shuddered beneath his touch. He trailed his hand over and pressed where nerves met muscle. ‘Lectricity gasped in pain. “Said you should relax.”

Plucking at the leather, he worked his way down ‘Lectricity’s back. Scratches made ‘Lectricity flex his black-stained fingers. A dig into his hip bones made him arch up and back, well trained. The Outcrier was rotating his palm against the curve of ‘Lectricity’s ass, getting ready to wind up, when the door started up again.

This time, it started out hesitant, building up to a lighter rattle. The Outcrier couldn’t have timed it better to really drive ‘Lectricity crazy. He grabbed a pistol in one hand, his cigar in the other, and said, “Place is waking up. Be good!”

His curiosity was rewarded with someone a lot easier on the eyes than the flesh mechanic. Young and trim, with tousled blonde hair, his grey eyes were edged in black. He said nothing: only shifted his louche stance to smile, sly and nervous.

The Outcrier cracked the door open and gave the looker a predatory once-over. “You here about the background troupe for the races? Right now it’s –“

Suddenly, the looker had company: four Gastown enforcers, flamethrowers at the ready. A Gastown official flung himself in front of the lot of them. Another official joined him, talking fast. “Greetings Outcrier and thank you for confirming your presence among the living within Gastown I am here representing the Gastown Executive Board and its updated signatories regarding re-negotiation of your entertainment franchise within our borders and with our legally required number of witnesses I am herewith presenting you with a proposed revision dated from…”

The Outcrier leaned against the doorframe, not listening. Bait. He’d fallen for bait. The oldest trick in the Wasteland.

Now he had to deal with these sphincters. They were thrusting a stack of vellum at him, with insincere, official smiles. Still not listening, he grabbed the paperwork and riffled through it. Ugh. He was going to need a fresh cigar for this.

While the officials blathered, the bait was watching, cold and curious. The Outcrier was about to ask, _that included?_ Until he remembered where he'd seen the bait’s face. One of the People Eater’s personal toys had outlived his owner. The Outcrier recoiled. They had nerve, sending around tainted goods like that. It said a lot about how they’d run Gastown.

The Outcrier smacked the paperwork back into the talker’s chest, and cut off his protests with a gesture.

“I will deal when I can deal solid. You get me? They hold Gastown seven days, I’ll deal.” The Outcrier slammed the door in this crew’s faces and stalked back to his bedroom.

He smacked his pistol on the bed, in easy reach, and worked his thick cock out of his own leathers, swollen with anger. His last gentle move was to rest the cigar in a hubcap ashtray. Then, he launched into his audience, subject, and victim.

“Bad news. This place has been grabbed by filthy deal-sharps. Get that ass in the air and spread. Make it look good! Better than Gastown laneway scum. I’m gonna ream you like I’ll ream their excuse for a franchise offer. Mmm-hmmm. Scream again. Makes you tighter. This is nothing. Nothing. They’ve found new ways to get dirtier out there. Unbelievable. I can tell how they’re going to run, I can Joe-damn see it. You let them get their hooks in you, drugs, bribes, you’re gone. Out. Hear me? You with me? You mine? Say it. SAY IT. You like it now. Like they will. They’ll learn. Learn what you know. What. Belongs. To me.” He hammered out his climax with an exuberant shout.

Satisfied for the moment, he pulled out, wiped down. When he reached for his cigar, it was still lit. Good. It wasn’t that they were expensive. That, he could handle. It was that they were getting rare…like other Wasteland commodities. Such as ‘Lectricity’s clean, supple body and polished obedience. With grim mirth, he reached for the wrist bondage, and used it to give ‘Lectricity a bounce. “Is it time for this to come off? Or not? Decisions, decisions.” ‘Lectricity arched and moaned, in a voiceless zone, leaving everything in the Outcrier’s hands.

Incredibly, someone started hammering at his door again.

The Outcrier cursed, then said, “Decision made.” He sliced open ‘Lectricity’s wrist bondage with a knife, then flipped him over on the bed. That boy had enjoyed himself too much, without permission, but discipline would have to wait. The Outcrier seized his pistol again and added the knife to his waistband. Then, he scooped up a semi-automatic and planted it in ‘Lectricity’s blackened hands. He didn’t need to say anything. ‘Lectricity knew the drill. His boy shook his head to clear it, dragging trousers on over the remains of the harness. He followed where the Outcrier went, staying in the shadows.

After all that, it was someone who deserved having the door opened again. A Thrall Rustler.

“Hey, Mal. How’s this war doing you? Bartering up?” He checked over the slaver’s shoulder. There were two slabs of muscle backing her, but at the top of the stairs. Respectable.

Mal’s dark red lips parted over the steel that replaced her teeth. She trilled, “I came to see you with a bargain indeed. Not something you want, but something you need.”

The Outcrier adjusted his crotch, rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “I’ll be the judge of that. Whatcha got?” He exhaled a stream of smoke.

“Gold and shadow. Mislaid treasure. The Immortan’s trash for another man’s pleasure!” Mal purred, “Not your pleasure, I know you. It’s for your business, through and through.” The Thrall Rustler stepped aside. A shaking bundle was kneeling behind her. She drew crackling old fabric away to reveal her wares.

The Outcrier gave the slave vendor a nod of appreciation. This was the goods, all right. Bait that would draw the whole Wasteland to his next race. Even if he had to feed it for half an oldyear while Gastown settled down, he couldn’t pass it up.

Pretending to consider, the Outcrier took another draw from his cigar. The rich smoke, the energy of the deal, the prospect of a Murderdome series crowned by a race of races, made him smile. He was full of life, schlang you very much, Gastown. This filthy refinery town was settling into its new order. He did more for the place than most, looking after his own, giving others a chance to make their names and share his luck.  He deserved to have some fun.

The Outcrier let smoke seethe through his grin. “Let’s talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there's a Mad Max video game, with acres of worldbuilding and this pair as both a game-canon male/male couple and Gastown movers and shakers. 
> 
> Who’s the hapless human commodity? There’s a hint in Chapter 5 of [Weave a Circle](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4229832), a very different story in my Wasteland 'verse. 
> 
> And what happens next? This is a prequel to the genfic [Fear and Loathing in Gastown](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6654655) with a whole lot more Outcrier.
> 
> For more of the Organic Mechanic surviving the Fury Road and giving Gastown a try, there's also [Gastown Nights](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4515567).


End file.
